


Said the Joker to the Thief

by carolinablu85



Category: Justified
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst and Humor, Gen, Hostage Situation, Humor, Kidnapping, Stakeout, Trapped In Elevator, US Marshal Siblings (basically)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinablu85/pseuds/carolinablu85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There must be some kind of way out of here</i><br/> </p><p>5 Times Tim is trapped with someone against his will... and 1 time he's by himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rachel

**Author's Note:**

> Grossly pretentious title aside (who LIKES coming up with titles, seriously)- hope you like! Thanks for reading :)

“ _I need you to get over here. Now._ ”

“Here what?” Tim mumbled, still fumbling to get the phone to his ear. “Huh?”

“ _Tim. Here. My house. I need you here now._ ”

Rachel always sounded stern. That was nothing new. At all. She delighted in bossing people (him) around. She loved the cowed look people (he) got when she raised an eyebrow all cool and Eastwood-y at them (him). Nothing new.

Except there was something in her voice now that Tim didn’t hear too often. A tremble, fear. He shoved himself off the couch. “I’ll be right-” she already hung up. “-there?”

He did not, contrary to the popular cliché- drive like a madman to get there. He may have pushed the speed limit, sure, but he wasn’t stupid. He had no idea what he was driving into. Calm and at the ready, that was Tim.

He parked in the seemingly-just-fine driveway, cataloguing everything he could see to determine if something was amiss. Nothing. Old Miss Thompson even waved at him from next door. He offered a wave back as he stepped onto Rachel’s porch. Going with his gut- maybe it actually wasn’t an emergency, stand down soldier- he knocked on her door. “U.S. Marshals, open up.”

She was glaring when she opened the door. “Very funny.”

He stayed on the porch. “I have a suspicion you got me here under false pretenses.”

“Not... really false,” she half-admitted. “I need some help.”

Still not moving. “With?” he drew the word out a few extra syllables.

“Getting a smartass off my porch. Will you come in already?” she yanked him in by the sleeve.

He looked around the living room. Nothing was on fire, nothing exploding, no Taliban occupying the corner by the window. The list of things he could possibly help with was growing shorter. “Rachel?”

She was fidgeting- this was also new. He hid a smirk, but was starting to feel a little happy. Rachel was uncomfortable. This was awesome. “Swear to me you won’t tell anyone about this.”

“Okay,” he said simply. Since when did he care about gossip- Rachel was the only one he told stories to anyway.

She nodded, trusting that. “You know I’ve been fixing up the basement?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Cleaning things out, remodeling, turning it into a rec room for Nick or something?” Another quick pause. “There’s a rat.”

“A...” he stopped, let his brain catch up with his mouth. “You called me to catch a rat in your basement.”

“Kill it,” she corrected.

“Catch it,” he corrected right back. “There’s enough woods behind the house for it to-”

“Whatever, just get rid of it.” she waved her hands, shooing him towards the basement door.

“Yes ma’am,” he drawled, knowing she hated when he called her that. “It’s not rabid, is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“To my health, yes,” he kept talking lazily, grabbing an oven mitt from the kitchen, some peanut butter crackers she always kept near the fridge for him or Nick to snack on. “If it bites me and I get hydrophobe, will you be the one to shoot me? Get me an empty shoebox, please.”

“‘He’s _my_ partner, Art. I’ll do it,’” she half-quoted with a smirk, handing him a box from the hall closet.

He took it with a grin. “Bury me out behind the courthouse, okay? So I can haunt Raylan.”

“I could scatter your ashes across Harlan country,” she mused, watching him poke holes in the bottom of the box, tie a piece of wire from her utility drawer through one hole.

“They didn’t cremate Old Yeller,” he protested.

She pretended not to hear him. “I wonder if my new partner will be pretty.”

“Hey. Your old partner’s still in the middle of doing you a favor,” he looked up with a hurt expression. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

She glared. “You’re gorgeous, doll. Now please get down there.”

“Rangers lead the way,” he mumbled, heading down into the basement. It was dark and damp, as all basements were required to be. “Last place you saw it?”

“Far corner, by the pipes,” she followed as far as the third step, then waited.

“Shut the door, will you? Won’t come out if there’s too much light,” he got busy setting up the shoe box, put the oven mitt on, using it to crumble up the crackers and scatter them on the box lid.

“Okay, you are way too at ease with what you’re doing for me to be comfortable,” she commented.

Tim smiled without meaning to. “Catching rats was one of our favorite activities,” he was distracted enough by setting up his trap that he didn’t really think about his words. “Scorpions too, but those motherfuckers we were happy to kill. Rats were good for getting rid of flies and spiders, shit like that, so we’d catch and release. Not dirty, like you think of. Not like city rats. Smart little things too. Always kinda surprised me that neither side trained rats to bring explosives into camp or something.”

He unspooled the wire so he could step back to the steps, not noticing Rachel’s silence. “I remember the first time we got this trap to work, somewhere near Ghazni. It was like we’d won the county science fair, so proud of ourselves. C.O. was _this_ close to putting us up for commendation, I swear.”

He sat on the second step, feet on the first in case the rat came from underneath. He felt Rachel take a seat on the step above him. And then he realized she was quiet. He looked at her, caught the thoughtful expression on her face. “What?”

She opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again. “You used shoe boxes over there?”

Half a shrug. “Empty artillery boxes. ’Bout the same size.” He fixed her with his version of the Rachel Eastwood-y Eyebrow. “But that’s not what you were wondering just now. So. I ask again. What?”

She regarded him carefully. “You only ever tell me funny or random stories from over there.”

Oh. “Oh.” Did he? A rustling over by the box interrupted that fun conversation. Tim pulled the wire quickly but not too hard, toppling the box over onto the lid, trapping the rat. It skittered for a second then went completely still, probably panicked. “Target acquired,” he threw over his shoulder, adding in a little snark for the hell of it.

“Thank God,” she sighed, not getting up.

“You’re welcome,” he stood, took the leftover wire and wrapped it around the box and lid, keeping it firmly shut. Then, feeling the weight of it, he frowned and peered into one of the holes he’d made. “Jesus, Rachel.”

“What?” she finally stood up, going for the door.

“It’s just a mouse,” he groaned. “A tiny little mouse. Not even a rat, just a-”

“‘Just’ nothing. I don’t want it in my house,” she snapped. “I don’t care what it is or if it shits gold. I want it gone.”

“Sorry, buddy,” he told the mouse. “Don’t feel bad. If you shit gold, I’d take you home.”

“It worries me that you talk nicer to vermin than you do to people,” Rachel said, twisting the door knob. Nothing happened. “Shit.” Nothing again. “No way.”

“What no way?” Tim started up the steps.

She halted him with a hand up. “Do not come closer to me with that box until I know I have a way out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We _don’t_ have a way out?”

She groaned. “Door is stuck. Jammed, something.” She kicked at it a few times. Nothing. “You want to try?”

“Can’t,” he groaned right back. “Ribs, remember?” The reason he’d been napping in the first place when she’d called- three cracked ribs from a nasty arrest two days ago.

“Damn it,” she sighed. “Sorry, yeah.” She checked her watch. “Well, my mom should be here in an hour or so, she’ll be able to break it open.”

“Your mom is scary,” he mumbled, setting Mouse Box down far away from Rachel, then joining her to sit on the steps again. “We’re still not telling anyone about this. Right?”

“Right,” she sat next to him this time, eyes unconsciously monitoring Mouse Box. “Back to my question.”

“Wasn’t a question,” Tim pointed out.

“Back to my personal and well-observed statement,” she amended. “You only tell me lighter stuff. Why is that?”

He shrugged. “Never thought about it.”

“Tim,” she shook her head a little.

“It’s true,” he stretched as far as he could, one hand touching his side carefully, bracing. “Never realized that.”

“Do you think I can’t handle the other stuff?” She didn’t say ‘bad’ stuff- she didn’t want him to think she’d judge anything. He knew she was good about things like that.

He was quiet for a minute, and she let him be. She was good at that too. “It’s not you, it’s me?” he finally offered.

She smacked his shoulder lightly. “Tim.”

Another shrug. “I mean it.” He settled back comfortably to lean on the next step up. “Got nothing to do with you, or me not trusting you or whatever. I just don’t like the other stories.”

“You _can_ tell me, though,” she argued.

He glanced over his shoulder as though the door might magically open. “I don’t know about that.”

“Hey-”

He shook his head. “Hey Rachel, tell me in detail and exact words what it’s like to deal with racist and sexist assholes all day. What’s your world like? Or, even better, what’s it like dealing with well-intentioned people who don’t even _realize_ they’re racist and sexist. Tell me so I can understand perfectly what it’s like. So you can _heal_.”

It was the most he’d said at one time in a long while, about something like this. She smiled, a little sad. “Point taken.”

He almost sighed. “And not saying the situations are the same. Just... I live in a different world than you do. Than everyone does. I don’t know how to make people understand that.”

She was quiet then, seeming to accept that. “Every time something bad happens to me on the job, someone worries that I’ll react a certain way because I’m black or a woman.” She said it with enough understanding that he was able to relax some more.

“Yep,” he drawled lightly. “And I’m a soldier. First few months, I swear Art thought I was going to have nightmares anytime someone fired a gun anywhere near me.”

She laughed. “I wasn’t sure if you noticed that.”

He snorted. “Course I did. But it’s not like I could tell him I hadn’t had nightmares since my second year overseas. Haven’t since. Some guys just... don’t.” He half-smiled. “I live in a different world.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it quickly. He just _knew_ she was about to say that just because he didn’t have nightmares didn’t mean he didn’t have other problems, but luckily she stopped herself. She laughed instead. “I remember the first time I met you.”

Glad for lighter conversation, he let the half-smile grow full. “Did you think I was pretty then?”

“I thought you were too skinny,” she shook her head. “A decorated Army Ranger from Kentucky? I was expecting someone bigger.”

“Ouch,” he deadpanned.

She grinned. “But this sweet-looking, baby-faced, skinny _kid_ comes in. In clothes that definitely weren’t his.”

“Hey, I bought that suit, it was mine,” he grumbled. “Just didn’t... fit perfectly.”

“You looked like a puppy,” she kept smiling. “I was terrified some fugitive was gonna break you in half.”

He grinned again, remembering their first assignment together. “I showed you, huh?”

“Ha,” she rolled her eyes. “When you laid that guy out? No, I think it was right before that, actually, that I started to rethink you.”

“Right before?” he looked at her, confused.

She nodded, tapping the inside of her right wrist. “That guy started spouting off that racist bullshit, and you holstered your gun. I remember thinking that was weird, I’ve seen so many rookies make the mistake of hiding behind their weapons too much. You put yours away, rolled up your sleeves a little. Calm, I remember that.”

He followed her gaze to his own right wrist. “Ah. So it was the tattoo. You like your men with a little bit of danger, do ya?”

She smacked him again. “Okay, the tattoo was surprising. But you were so calm and deliberate. And when you hit that guy, just once,” she shrugged, smiling almost fondly. “You didn’t lose control, and you obviously had more muscle than any of us thought. I realized maybe people underestimate you a lot. I could relate to that.”

Tim couldn’t help but smile too. He might never get used to being close to people like he had been with his unit, but he liked this. With Rachel. Different kind of partnership. “Everyone told me to be scared of you.”

“What?” she turned, eyes wide.

And he also liked antagonizing her. “Before Art paired us up. The other guys tried to warn me about you. You were scary, cold, only allowed two strikes instead of three before writing other marshals off.”

“Not just marshals,” she muttered.

“I was ready for you to be a drill sergeant,” he recalled. “But you were just... direct. Expected me to do the job, not be... super soldier, or traumatized, or crazy, or whatever else all the gossip about me was.”

She nodded. “You were the favorite topic of conversation for awhile. Come to think of it, you probably should thank Raylan for arriving when he did. Took all the heat off you.”

“I thank him by not shooting him every day,” he grumbled. He stretched again. “Wish we’d brought beer down here.”

“When I get this up and running, I’ll put a fridge in,” she promised.

He nodded his thanks. “So, a rec room for Nick?”

“Yeah,” she pointed to the far wall. “I have an extra TV and DVD player. Can get an old couch. A stereo, maybe. Some games. A pool table in the other corner.”

His raised eyebrow was back. “Nick plays pool?”

“No, but you do,” she smiled without looking directly at him.

He was about to feel uncomfortable with the feelings behind that... then thought one step farther. “Meaning, I can come down here and teach Nick how to play pool, thereby keeping him out of your hair for a bit longer?”

She grinned, unrepentant. “See? And to think people underestimate your intelligence, too.”

He pointed at her warningly. “So much beer.”

Rachel just nodded, agreeing to the terms. “I’ll owe you.”

“So much beer,” he repeated, resigning himself now. He checked on Mouse Box again, pretty sure Mouse was contentedly eating the peanut butter crackers. “What brought the remodeling idea on?” he asked as casually as he could.

She still saw right through him. “Yes, Tim, I’ve been just fine since my divorce. Thank you for asking.”

He held up his hands peaceably. Or defensively, just in case she decided to hit him again. “Okay.”

“I don’t ask you about your dating life,” she kept at it. “And you’ve never asked me about mine. It’s been so nice that way.”

“Okay,” he said again.

“Do you even _have_ a dating life?” she wondered.

“And just what happened between you and Joe?” he asked back.

“Yeah, yeah,” she still smiled through her sigh. “I get it.” They were both settled back against the steps, content to be quiet for awhile. “I am glad, you know,” she said after a bit longer. “That Art stuck me with you.”

He smiled a little. Not at her, of course, but still. He smiled. “Me too. And I’m glad I haven’t gotten my two strikes yet.”

Rachel laughed. “Me too.”

The sound of the front door opening and Mrs. Brooks’s voice calling out interrupted the soon-to-be-uncomfortable moment. “Rachel?”

“Thank God,” they breathed in unison, standing up.

Tim went to retrieve Mouse Box while Rachel pounded on the door. “Mom? The basement door’s stuck!”

By the time Tim got up the steps, holding Mouse Box as far from Rachel as he could, the door splintered at the handle and was pried open, revealing Mrs. Brooks standing there with a crowbar in hand and a bored look on her face. Which, Tim had to admit, was pretty awesome.

The expression melted into a smile when she spotted Tim. “Tim, honey! I thought that was your truck out there,” she patted his shoulder, eyeing the box wrapped with wire tucked under his other arm. “And that is...?”

“There was a mouse,” Rachel explained, only a little embarrassed. 

Tim nodded, so serious. “It tried to kill me with imaginary rabies,” he added helpfully, ducking when Rachel tried to hit him. 

“All.. right then,” Mrs. Brooks got that tone she always got when Rachel and Tim reverted to snarking at each other. “You’ll stay for dinner, then?”

She always phrased them like questions but used words to make them commands. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Fine. But dispose of your friend first.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said again, so much more insolently.

“Don’t call me that,” she swatted at the back of his head as he moved past her to the back porch.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Strike two, Tim. Strike two.”


	2. Raylan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear: it's always Raylan's fault.

Raylan moved out onto the roof steadily, hands up and out, calm and seemingly unruffled. Despite the fact that the first sight to greet him was Tim sitting hunched over by the edge, hands tied behind him, his left shoulder and shirt sleeve soaked with blood, his head down. Two men stood on either side, guns pointed at him, stone-faced.

“Tim?” he put as many questions into it as he could.

Tim rolled his neck a little, tilting to look up at him. “So you know,” he drawled, slow and careful, “I’m gonna find a way to make this all your fault.”

Raylan smiled a little, couldn’t help it. “I reckon you won’t have to try that hard.”

***

_Earlier..._

Raylan squinted, shook his head, peering out the window. “Something ain’t right.”

“How do you figure?” Rachel cocked her head, trying to look out and see whatever he was seeing.

Raylan’s hand strayed to his gun, tracing the catch on the holster. “It’s a pretty, pretty prize, just sitting there.” He nodded to the car they were staking out, still sitting idle at the corner. “What the hell are they waiting for?”

“What the hell are they waiting for?” Art snapped a second later, entering from the back of the empty store they were camped out in. He pulled out his radio. “Tim, is it quiet where you are?”

Raylan glanced instinctively up at the rooftop across the street, the shadow he couldn’t actually see unless he searched really hard for it. “Yeah, a little _too_ quiet,” Tim’s voice, desert-dry, crackled over the line.

“Keep an eye out, smartass,” Art chided, snapping the radio back to his belt, even as he couldn’t help but snort in amusement.

“Why aren’t they going for it?” Raylan asked again, trying not to lean too close to the windows, cast any shadows on the sidewalk out front, tip off their location.

“Movement a block east,” Tim’s voice finally cut in a few minutes later, all business, just as Raylan was really about to start going crazy. “Coming down 3rd street. Male, 30s. Dark hair.”

“Armed?” Art had his radio out again.

A beat of silence. “Empty hands, but it’s a bulky jacket. Assume armed.”

“I see him,” Rachel pointed, keeping her movements slow just in case. A figure appeared, walking far too casually out of an alley. “Raylan?”

He nodded. “Could be the guy.” They kept still, kept their eyes on the street. “Soon as he goes for the car, we’ll-”

“What’s he doing?” Art moved as carefully as he could, coming to stand next to them.

Raylan narrowed his eyes again, trying to get a better look. The guy had stopped moving, standing at the edge of the sidewalk across the street from the car. The car stayed idle, no movement within. The man backed up a few steps. “What the hell...”

“What is he _doing_?” Art asked again. The man hadn’t moved, like he was listening for something, waiting. As they watched, he put a finger to his ear for a moment, glanced around, eyes sweeping past their street, then up to the roofs, then he turned and walked quicker than before back the way he came.

“What-” Rachel pulled her gun free of its holster.

“Shit,” Raylan started to move to the door of their storefront, stopped, pulled out his own gun. “What was that?”

“He was listening to someone, did you see? He had an earpiece in,” Art grimaced, pulled out the radio again. “Tim, he’s moving back the way he came, keep an eye on him.”

“Roger that.”

“Who was he listening to? There’s no way he could’ve known we were here,” Raylan looked to Art and Rachel, confused.

Art was at a loss too. “Only if he had the eyes of God, or his own sni-” He stopped. Rachel stopped. Raylan stopped.

“Christ,” Raylan cursed, grabbed the radio right out of Art’s hand. “Tim, take cover right now. Get out of sight on that roof. Right now.”

“What-”

The gunshots- two or three in quick succession, an unfamiliar caliber- rang out louder than normal. Or maybe it just seemed that way. “Tim.” Raylan half-snapped, half-asked over the radio.

Rachel was already ahead of him, slipping out onto the sidewalk, keeping close to the building’s cover just in case. “I don’t see him.”

“Shit,” he cursed again. “Tim?”

“Yeah,” his voice came through a too-tense moment later. “Good call on taking cover.”

Art snatched the radio back as he and Raylan joined Rachel out on the sidewalk, Rachel already calling for backup. “Stay where you are. They’ve had eyes on us since we got here.”

“Shooter’s on the building adjacent to you, some sort of modified rifle,” Tim listed off, calm as ever. “He’s not gonna be able to move much from that position-” another gunshot from over their heads. The bullet struck the corner of the building Tim had set up on, kicking up dust as it hit the low wall he was probably behind. “So if you keep that in mind, you should be clear.”

“Can you get clear?” Art asked.

There was another moment of silence. “I can get him.”

Raylan frowned, confused. Art just rolled his eyes. “No. We’ll get him. You are not to stick your neck out- or any other part of you- until the shooter is neutralized.”

“Backup will be here in ten,” Rachel reported, peering over her shoulder, trying to get a look at the shooter. Another bullet fired, this time hitting a metal ventilation unit on Tim’s roof and sending a few sparks into the air. Another shot farther to the right, like it was searching for Tim. Or marking territory.

“He’s not trying real hard to kill me,” Tim’s voice broke through before Art could check on him again. “I think he just wants to keep me pinned down. Keep me busy.”

“Looks like it’s working,” Art commented.

“No, I’m bored. Let me shoot him.”

Raylan almost smiled, especially when Art sighed oh so tiredly. “No,” he said right back. “Keeping you busy is keeping him busy. So you either get clear of the roof and join us down here, or if you can’t- you stay right there. Understood?”

“Chief...”

“Understood?” he snapped this time. There was no reply. “Shit, Tim, I swear to God if you-”

“Get down!” was not the response they’d been expecting from him.

Another gunshot rang out, but it didn’t come from above their heads. From across the street and down the block, they could just make out the flash in the alley. The bullets struck the curb at their feet, pushing the three of them back to the cover of their storefront. “Back, back!” Art commanded unnecessarily.

The windows of the storefront smashed and shattered as they ducked down and tried to fire back, bullets raining around them. “Boss, I got a clear shot of him!” Tim yelled over the radio, over the gunfire.

Art cursed under his breath, and Raylan tried to work through the dilemma himself. If this was a way to draw Tim out, they were all but guaranteeing the first shooter would be able to find him. But if this kept up, it put them and their arriving backup in danger anyway. “What about your other friend?”

“I’ve got cover, it’s fine. Let me take the shot,” Tim, who rarely raised his voice, sounded way more like a soldier now than Raylan ever thought he would. Could. It was all very surreal, and a strange time to be having these thoughts considering how very close to getting shot they all were. “Art! Let me take it!”

He hardly ever called him Art, at least to his face. “Do it,” Art said it grimly, almost reluctantly.

There was maybe another two seconds of bullets bombarding them, then the louder crack of a familiar rifle. Then nothing, for what seemed like a full minute. The first shooter was quiet too, which was downright unsettling. Art raised his eyebrows at each of them, asking. Rachel waved a hand, Raylan nodded- they were okay.

Art let out the breath he’d apparently been holding. They could finally hear sirens approaching. “Tim, backup’s almost here. You still need help getting off the roof?” There was no response. Art switched the radio to his other hand carefully, as though that made a difference. “Tim, talk to me.” He gestured to Rachel and she nodded, regripping her gun and heading quietly out to the street, staying to the shadows.

Raylan’s cell buzzed in his pocket, he ignored it in favor of moving closer to Art and the radio. “You think the other shooter got him?”

Art gave him a shrug, controlled, precise. “Tim, come in.” Another look to Raylan. “He could’ve been hit. He could’ve tossed his radio off the roof. He could have narcolepsy. I have no idea.” Sharper into the radio, “Tim, you answer me right now.”

There was a click over the line, someone definitely turning the other end’s receiver on. But the voice that came through wasn’t Tim’s. “Ray-lan,” it was on the quiet side, sing-songing, and real goddamn creepy. “Answer your phone, Raylan.”

He stared at Art for a moment, thrown, confused. “The hell...?”

“Answer your phone or we’ll shoot Deputy Gutterson in the head.”

Art closed his eyes and held the radio in a tighter grip. “This is Chief Deputy Marshal Art Mullen. Who am I speaking to?”

Silence. Raylan’s cell started buzzing again. “Shit, shit, shit,” Raylan turned away from the street as their backup arrived noisily, gripping the phone tight. He glanced at Art one more time. “Shit.” Then stepped back to answer the call. “Who is this?”

“A whole lot of people want you dead, Raylan Givens,” the voice still gave nothing away. Raylan wracked his brain to try coming up with a name, a face, anything to match.

“Well if that’s the case you’re pointing the gun at the wrong marshal,” he said conversationally. “What did Deputy Gutterson ever do to you?”

“He did kill one of mine not ten minutes ago,” the voice pointed out.

“That one of yours shot first,” he argued, trying to buy time. Rachel re-entered the shot up store, shaking her head. The sniper above them was gone.

Raylan had a feeling that sniper was standing next to the man he was talking to. “Look, it’s late, I’m tired, I’m really not at the top of my bullshit game. So tell me who the hell you are, and what it’s gonna take for this to have a happy ending.”

“I’m here with regards from Theo Tonin.”

Raylan spun around, facing the building he was pretty sure Tim and whoever this psycho was were on. “And here I thought he was retired. What kind of regards are these?”

“Oh, I’m still working on the details. Maybe I’ll wait for you to get up here and watch my boys kick Tim’s skull in. Maybe I’ll throw him off the roof right when you’re coming up. Or maybe,” there was some movement, something, that Raylan could hear. “Maybe I’ll drive an ice pick through his eye, make sure he don’t shoot anybody else.”

All the focus of his brain went into that. “Fletcher, is that you?”

“I’m touched you remember,” the tone- so familiar now that Raylan could identify him- didn’t change at all. “If you don’t want your friend perfectly maimed in the next few minutes, you’ll get yourself up to this roof.”

***

_Now..._

His view of Tim was suddenly blocked by Fletcher Nix himself. “Have a seat, Marshal. Stay awhile.” He looked the same as ever, maybe a little thinner, face set a little harder. He reached out, took the gun out of Raylan’s holster, one of the... guards? henchmen? whatever, taking the other from at his back.

Raylan eyed him, smile fading away. “Nice hat.” Testing his boundaries, he moved around Nix to take that seat right next to Tim. Between Tim and Nix, between Tim and most of the guns. Tim promptly rolled his eyes.

Nix just kept up the grin. “Sit tight.” He pulled out his phone, stepping away to make whatever call he was making. Duffy? Tonin?

Either way, it didn’t exactly bode well, did it? Judging by the expression on Tim’s face, he was thinking the same thing. Raylan decided to focus on him, eyeing the shoulder wound. “Y’alright?”

Tim’s face went perfectly deadpan. All Tim. “Well, I got shot,” he sighed out.

“And it’s done wonders for your disposition,” he fired back. At the tiny smirk Tim responded with, he tried again. “How bad?”

Tim shook his head. “Through and through. Didn’t hit anything important.” He looked like he wanted to shrug but thought better of it. “Just bleeding a lot.”

“Oh, that’s fine then,” he said fake-brightly. “Just losing blood by the quart. No problem.” Raylan glanced at Nix. “How’d they get the drop on you?”

The smirk disappeared. “Soon as I got the second shooter. They were using him to find my location, shift my focus.” An eyebrow raised and lowered, substituting for the shrug. “Not the best use of a human sacrifice.”

Raylan let that go with a nod, what else could either of them do about another dead body right now. “That when they shot you?”

Tim pursed his lips, hedging the answer. “Happened around the time you were telling me to take cover.”

“Well, shit.” Raylan glared at Tim for no reason. “You got that second shooter with a bullet in your shoulder?”

“Technically the bullet went through, not in. And I had to, didn’t I?” Tim not-shrugged again.

He glared a little harder. “Art’s gonna shoot your other arm.”

He let out a quick, quiet laugh. “Yep.” Then, more serious, just for a second, almost long enough to be mistaken for sincere, “He and Rachel are okay though, right?”

Raylan thought it was nice of him not to comment on Tim’s sincerity. “Yeah, just pissed. Rachel mostly at you.”

“See, that’s why I haven’t escaped. Rather take my chances here than with her.”

“Smart man,” Raylan pretended to relax, stretch out some, take in more of their situation. “They get both your guns?”

“And the other,” he answered grimly.

So. The one in Tim’s ankle holster too, then. He quirked an eyebrow, asking about the knife in his other boot. Tim shook his head just a fraction. He still had that then. Good. Of course, his hands were tied behind his back and there was still blood oozing down his side, so there were pluses and minuses all around. “Oh, hell,” he started to pull his marshal jacket off.

“Hey, hey,” one of the guards stepped closer, gun raising sharply, menacing.

Raylan held one hand up, still taking the jacket off with the other. “Relax. I’m just trying to stop him from bleeding to death, asshole.” He braced Tim back against the low wall, padded his jacket around the entrance and exit wounds, tying the sleeves around it as best he could. Tim grunted a little, grimaced, but not much else. “Okay?” he asked anyway.

“Yep,” Tim’s voice was as even as ever, and he almost seemed fine if not for the slightly paler complexion.

Raylan nodded, accepted it as face value, trusting Tim to know his limitations. “So. Don’t-” He was interrupted by one of the guards grabbing his arms, pulling them behind his back. Raylan let it happen, since the second guard moved to press the muzzle of his gun up against the side of Tim’s face, daring him. He glared again, letting the man zip-tie his hands behind his back. “Thanks.”

One guy shrugged. “We let you tend the wound first,” he pointed out almost nicely, as though all of this was a perfectly reasonable situation. Then the two stepped back again to stand over a ways with Nix, almost in tandem, guns covering their prisoners.

Raylan shifted a little, finding a spot that kept his shoulders from aching. “Don’t suppose you have some Army Ranger anecdote of an incident like this that we could use to concoct an escape?”

Tim just stared at him, blinking slowly. “I must’ve lost more blood than I thought.”

“Huh?”

“You do know you sounded just like Boyd Crowder then, right?”

“Jesus,” Raylan winced, shook his head, only half-joking. “You sure know how to make a bad day worse.”

“Still your fault,” he mumbled back, leaning his head back against the wall with a contained sigh. Closing his eyes, “I’m telling Art it’s all your fault.”

“He’ll believe you,” Raylan stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back against the wall too, eyes going back to Nix still on the phone. “They didn’t reveal any important details of the plan before I got here, did they?”

“To the bait and fodder? No,” Tim smirked. “Raylan, I’m as much a human sacrifice as the guy I shot twenty minutes ago.”

Raylan turned to him again, fought against reacting any which way. “Not gonna happen.”

“Okay,” Tim nodded, obviously placating. “Sure.”

“Damn it, Tim-”

Tim opened his eyes, calm, almost amused. “I was a means to get you up here. They got you up here. They don’t need me anymore.” He nodded over to Nix. “Soon as Ice Pick Cometh gets off the phone, I’m probably very dead.” Looking back to Raylan, “Tell Rachel she can have my guns.”

“Bullshit.” Raylan turned as much as he could, trying to keep his voice down. “First off, Rachel can have your truck. I’d get your guns. Second, there’s no way I’m cooperating with them without you alive. Got it?”

“What makes you think they care if you cooperate?” Tim pointed out, tone cool and calm yet again.

Raylan felt his frustration rise, tried to temper it back down. “See, you’re trying to be all logical and shit. Nothing about this is logical. This is the shit I thrive on. IEDs and rifles, all you. Psycho hit men? All me.”

“Not exactly comforting,” Tim drawled the words out slowly, eyes shutting again. “Wake me up before they shoot me, ’kay?”

“Nuh-uh, Tim. You concussed?” Raylan wasn’t about to be left alone just yet.

Tim groaned, dragged his eyes open again. “Shoulder. Not head. You really are out to ruin my day, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t yet?” he smirked again. The smallest flash of movement over Tim’s shoulder caught Raylan’s attention, but he didn’t react beyond glancing over. Tim still caught it, but the guards didn’t. “It’s okay. Rachel and some guys getting in position.”

“Which roof?” Tim didn’t move at all.

“Across the street and one building over. To your right.”

Tim looked like he was wrestling with turning to look, but held still. “They got a good shooter with ’em?”

“Can’t tell from here,” Raylan tried to look without looking. “Maybe Jackson.” Jackson had apparently been the resident sniper before Tim had shown up in Lexington. Raylan would’ve thought there’d be tension between them because of it, but Jackson was an old dog, ready to give up the burden anyway. Recognized Tim’s skill- and more than that, his mentality- and wisely stepped back.

Tim nodded a fraction. “State and local covering the exits, probably. SWAT?”

He didn’t hide his grin, “Art’ll call them if he _has_ to,” glad when Tim smirked back. But then Tim shifted a little, like he was trying to get comfortable, and Raylan could see through the makeshift jacket-bandage that he was still bleeding. “Don’t do anything half-ass, do you?” he wished he could reach out and tighten the jacket again.

“Hm?” Tim followed his gaze. “Oh. Probably should stop soon, huh?”

“Yeah, work on it, will you? For next time.”

“Next time? I’m just gonna let them shoot you at the start,” he grumbled, eyes closed again.

Raylan let him be this time, settling again next to him, half an eye on Nix and his men, half on the strike team slowly taking position around them. “Which boot?” Well, almost let him be. Wordlessly, without opening his eyes, Tim shifted a bit, his left leg stretching lazily then curling up some, his ankle somehow ending up closer to Raylan. “Good.”

“Oh yeah, great,” Tim sighed, managing to put just enough contempt into very quiet words. “So we’re all set then, I guess.”

“I’ll think of something, you just sit there,” he threw back casually. He refrained from pointing out that Tim was slowly trying to work his boot off, and therefore was actually _helping._ Instead he eyed their guards and Nix, trying to get any sense of possible weakness or opportunity. 

There wasn’t much.

Tim huffed a laugh as though he was thinking the same thing. His boot was almost all the way off, Raylan could just see the strap holding the knife inside. Raylan inched forward some, bringing his hands even with Tim's ankle. Trying to concentrate without looking like he was concentrating, his fingers stretched and searched along Tim’s leg to his boot.

"I think you owe me dinner now," Tim murmured.

"How 'bout I save your life instead?" Raylan pulled the knife free of the boot, trying to flip it over, get the blade across his zip ties.

"You got me shot."

"Only a little," he argued, working to cut even faster, unsure of just when Nix would be back to kill them. Well, kill Tim. Probably torture Raylan for a bit, then kill him. Maybe deliver him to Tonin or Duffy first, _then_ torture him, _then_ kill him. Something to look forward to.

"Do you think this is just the start?" Tim asked. Raylan could tell his eyes were still closed. He just didn't know if it was from normal Tim attitude or blood loss. Or both.

Probably both.

"Start of what?" Raylan's hands were free. He kept them behind his back, moving to the ledge again, his shoulder almost brushing Tim's. "Turn a little."

"More creeps coming out of the woodwork, looking to-" Tim grunted softly as he tried to give Raylan access to his hands. "Looking to get in Detroit's good graces by offing you."

"Aw, you worried?" Raylan smirked, attempting to reach the plastic around his wrists.

"If my current state is setting the precedent? Yeah."

Raylan grimaced then; his fingers were slipping, the blood around Tim’s zip ties making them stick to his skin. "Anyone ever tell you you're too cynical?"

"No one who's still alive," Tim grunted again.

Raylan paused for maybe a second. Yet another time he wasn't sure if Tim was joking or not. And also yet again, he dismissed it with a shrug, going back to trying to free his hands. “Shit, I can’t...” he tried to reach farther with the knife. “Can you-”

“Stop stop stop,” Tim hissed suddenly, twisting away again as quickly as he could.

Raylan obeyed instinctively, hiding the knife up his sleeve just as Nix approached and crouched down at their feet. He tensed, readying himself for a fight, even as he mentally glared at Tim for appearing to relax even more. Both of them expectant, maybe just for different things.

“Well,” Nix didn’t ever quite speak in a drawl, Raylan realized. It was more... deadened. Fixed and focused. He didn’t like it. “We’ve only got plans for one of you, so this presents a slight problem.” Faster that Raylan expected him to, Nix reached out, driving his fist sharply into Tim’s bloody shoulder. “You don’t seem too concerned, Marshal.”

Tim’s eyes flew open and he bit back a groan, choking on nothing, glaring at Nix. Raylan moved forward, remembering at the last second to keep his hands behind his back, keep his grip on the knife. Keep his cool. Barely. “Hey, there’s no need for-” he tried to bring the guy’s attention back to him.

Nix waved the gun he’d been holding at his side, pointing it somewhat lazily at Raylan. “No need for what?”

Raylan had to near-physically swallow back the retort he wanted to give. “No need for the goddamn gun,” he said instead. “I’m here. Alright? You got me. Whatever you got planned, you can leave him out of it.” And he added, “Stop it,” to Tim just as he rolled his eyes- again- at Raylan’s words.

Nix just smiled... sort of. It was probably his version of a smile. He pushed in closer, gun now firmly in hand and pointed at Raylan. “I’m not playing any games with you this time, Givens.”

“Meaning?” he transferred grip of the knife to his right hand.

“Meaning I’m taking no chances,” an ice pick seemed to appear out of nowhere in Nix’s other hand. He brandished it at Tim, trailing the point down his face, down his neck, to his shoulder. Tim held still and held his glare, even when Nix dared to press it against his shoulder wound, just a little. “No loose ends.”

Raylan eyed the barely-there movement across the street, tried to figure out the timing. There was a helicopter approaching, that was either really good or really bad. He wasn’t sure who it belonged to. He tightened his hold on the knife. “How’s this for a chance, Fletcher- this is your last chance to put the gun down. Let me and Deputy Gutterson walk off this roof. Not get yourself killed. Three things, three chances. You can do them all right now.”

Nix kinda-smiled again. “Or I could-”

That was as far as he got. 

Raylan shoved the gun out of his face with one hand and stabbed with the other, burying the knife up to the hilt in Nix’s chest. Tim twisted and rolled away from the ice pick at the same time, landing on his side. He kicked as Raylan moved forward, the two of them pushing Nix away. Raylan went down on his back next to Tim.

“Shit-” the two armed men raised their weapons, one trained on Raylan, the other on Tim, but that was as far as they got, too. Two shots were already ringing out from across the street, and both men dropped. For a moment, everything was quiet and still.

“Definitely Jackson,” Tim mumbled, not moving, caught between the low wall and Raylan.

“I feel like I should apologize,” Raylan stayed where he was, catching his breath, letting his heart rate settle again.

Tim was quiet too, for a bit. “I’m scared to ask what for.”

Raylan shook his head, grabbed at his hat where it had fallen next to him. “The only thing I had to untie your hands with is now buried in the bad guy’s chest.”

Tim shook his head, winced a little as he managed to sit back up. “Shit, man. Of all the things you could apologize for, that’s low on the list.”

The door to the roof burst open, a mix of marshals and staties and Art coming through. Letting everyone else clean up the mess of three dead bodies, Art approached Raylan and Tim instead. He stood a foot away, holstering his gun, studying them both. Waiting for something. Tim and Raylan didn’t move. 

“Hey, Boss,” Tim blinked up at him.

“I think the stakeout might’ve been a set up, Art,” Raylan added, still lying on his back.

Art did another of his too-old-for-this-shit sighs. “Way to go, assholes,” it seemed like he said it without even realizing, kneeling down next to Tim with his pocketknife, grimacing at his shoulder. “How bad?”

“Not,” Tim answered succinctly. “Maybe some stitches.”

“Maybe,” Raylan agreed wryly, sitting up and joining them as Tim’s hands were finally cut loose. “And I’m fine, thanks.”

“I didn’t ask.” Art untied a bit of the jacket around Tim’s shoulder, frowned some more, tied it back up. “Well boys, I could use a drink.”

“Right behind you,” Tim started to stand up, only to have Art push him back down. 

“You’re using a trip to the hospital,” he ordered. “One word of argument, and I’ll let Rachel yell at you _before_ they drug you up. Understand?” Raylan smirked at Tim, triumphant for absolutely no reason, so of course Art whirled on him and ruined the fun. “And you. You and I are going to have a long talk about what I mean when I say, ‘Stay right here until we get a look at the roof.’”

Raylan tried that innocent expression he was so bad at. “I thought that meant-”

“It meant, stay right there until we got a look at the roof. Not go up on the roof with the ice pick killer and put yourself and fellow deputy in more trouble.” The calm- and hey, maybe relief- Art had gained while freeing Tim was gone now, his initial anger back. “In fact, both of you dumbasses can sit here until I get Rachel up here to yell at you. My blood pressure isn’t worth this.” He pulled out his radio and stomped off, calling for paramedics and (probably) Deputy Brooks.

Raylan pushed himself up to sit next to Tim again, somewhat mirroring their positions from before. He glanced over. “You could’ve backed me up just then, you know.” Tim’s look back at him dripped with skepticism. “I saved your life,” he continued. “Sorta.”

“You got me shot,” Tim reminded him. Again.

Raylan shrugged, readying himself for Tirade Part 2: the Rachel Edition. “Only a little.”


	3. Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hungover Tim is the best Tim according to Art.  
> Well-meaning Art is the worst Art according to Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate when I don't update regularly, so apologies to anyone who noticed this wasn't... regular. Hopefully real-life work will stop getting in the way of fun-life work now!

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Just one.”

“No.”

“Just one.”

“Chief.”

“Tim.”

“No.”

Art sighed with a smile. The most boring stakeout in the history of Kentucky with his most laconic deputy in the history of the marshal service. Two hours in and the silence was already wearing on his nerves. He might as well make Tim share the pain. “Nobody’s gonna know.”

Tim shifted in his seat, having propped an elbow up against the window so he could lean his head into the crook of his arm. “I’m not shooting the crows.”

“Just one,” he tried to insist again. “Show off a little. You can get your rifle out of the trunk. I won’t even make a joke about ‘winging’ one.”

Tim sighed very softly, resigned, opening the car door. Just as Art’s hopes started to rise, Tim pulled the door shut again hard, slamming it, the noise scaring off the birds that had lined up on the nearby fence. “Oops.”

“Your lack of youthful vigor worries me, Tim. It really does,” he grinned as he said it, watching with amazement as Tim managed to fold himself back up into his previous position. 

“You gonna talk the whole time till the target shows up?” Tim mumbled into his arm, one eye staying on the house they were parked across from.

“Perp, Tim. Not target,” he purposefully didn’t answer the question. Because he knew Tim would notice that.

“I’m not calling him a ‘perp,’ Boss. This ain’t Starsky and Hutch.”

“How old were you when that was on air?” Art turned towards Tim, trusting him to keep watch on the house.

“Not even a zygote,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. His age was a constant source of amusement for the other marshals, which was a constant source of annoyance for him. As if illustrating that point, Tim reached up and pinched at the bridge of his nose, then ran the hand through his hair with an almost-silent sigh.

Art frowned a little then. “You sick?”

“Nope,” Tim kept his eyes on target. Pointedly.

So Art smirked instead. “A-ha. Late night, son?”

“Shut up.”

“Had a few too many drinks, maybe?”

“Shut up, old man.”

He chuckled. “Old man? Shit, I bet I could listen to music louder than you could stand right now.”

“That’s because you forgot your hearing aids,” Tim was back to mumbling.

“Yet I heard _that_ just fine,” Art kept up his happy demeanor, knowing it would annoy Tim further. Hungover-Tim was one of his favorite Tims, he had to admit. Hungover-Tim was overly grumpy and long suffering, just barely hanging on to his ingrained sense of ‘sir yes sir’. “So how was your day off yesterday?”

And there it was. Tim tensed, just enough for him to notice. “Fine.”

“I ask, because you rarely take days off.”

“I-”

“Actually, what’s the word? Less than rarely... ah!” he snapped his fingers. “Never.”

“Chief.”

“You never take days off,” he kept up his chatter, delighting in the growing crease of annoyance around Tim’s eyes. “Must’ve been something important.” No response. “Really important.” Still nothing. “Because your hours this week have been a little off. Raylan-like, even. So if you want to talk about something, now’s the-”

“Fine, Chief, you’re right,” Tim heaved a sigh, surprising Art without how easy it was. Maybe a little _too_ \- “You’re right. I got Winona Hawkins pregnant. Boy am I glad that secret’s out, such a weight off my-”

“All right, all right,” Art turned back to face forward, hands up in surrender. “Fine. You win, smartass.” Internally, Art just got more curious, filing it away for further thought. Tim could’ve come up with a million and one believable excuses to get Art off his back. But he really didn’t want to talk about yesterday, not even to lie.

Interesting.

“Got an email from Jack Parker this morning,” Tim spoke up, rather rather reluctantly. Wanting to change the subject but not wanting to talk at all. It was enough to make him grumpy again, which made Art happy again.

“Jack Parker from Glynco?” Art raised his eyebrows. “I worked with that old asshole for ten years, what’s he doing emailing you?” Of course Art knew why, Parker had been one of Tim’s teachers at the FLETC and had taken quite the paternal liking to him, but hey- today’s theme was not Make Things Easy For Tim.

Tim sighed as though he could hear Art’s thoughts. “He’s retiring next week. Moving to Florida,” he said the word with a shake of his head, as though Florida were some detestable, unbelievable place.

“What’s wrong with Florida?” Art asked.

Tim shrugged. “It’s... it’s where grandparents go to play mahjong and die. Not Jack.”

“You do realize Jack _is_ a grandfather, right?” he pointed out, loving how disgruntled Tim was. 

“No he’s not,” Tim argued stubbornly, finally unfolding himself from his impossibly curled up position to glare at Art. “His kids have kids. But he’s not a... you think he’s, like, Grandpa Jack?”

Art chuckled fondly, at both Jack’s and Tim’s expense. “You ever actually had grandparents, kid?”

He shrugged again. “No. Not that I know of,” he amended. “But still. Jack’s not what I picture as...” he trailed off, then narrowed his eyes even more. “Shit. You got an email from him too, didn’t you?”

He schooled his face into innocence. “What makes you assume that-”

“Chief.”

“Course I did, dumbass, I worked with him for ten years,” he smirked. “I got invited to the same retirement party you did, I reckon.”

Tim kept up the glare. “Chief.”

“Yes, Deputy?”

Tim opened his mouth, hesitated, opened it again. “You ain’t moving to Florida anytime soon, are you?”

“When I retire?” Art asked, noticing the slight tick to Tim’s face when he said the R-word. Tim didn’t deal well with change like that, he was guessing. “No, Tim, we have no plans for mahjong just yet.”

Tim’s answering nod was satisfied, almost... relieved? Art let himself feel a little pleased at that. For all their callousness and groaning, he did care a lot for his marshals. He liked that they cared right back, even if neither party would ever admit it.

“Aw, you are gonna miss me, aren’t you?” Art put a hand to his chest, overly touched.

“Christ,” Tim muttered, looking away. “Can I go scout the area or something?”

He hadn’t denied the question, Art grinned to himself. “You already did-”

“Again?” Tim talked over him.

“Nope,” Art talked over him right back. “You have to stay in the car with me. Really, son, considering the way you feel about me, you think you’d want to treasure as much time together as possible. Time can be so fleeting-”

“Christ,” he cursed again with a groan, curling back up against the door, as far from Art as he could get.

Art chuckled, triumphant. A few more minutes of silence, the air relaxed and comfortable enough around them, and Art tried again. “Everything’s okay? Whatever you had to deal with yesterday- you good?”

Tim stayed still and quiet for a bit. “I’m good. But I’m not the problem, so...”

“Who is?” he asked quietly, keeping his eyes away, focused on the house.

Another minute of silence. “Friend of mine got back last month from deployment.”

Tim didn’t use the word ‘friend’ all that often in the context of himself, so Art took notice. And decided to tread carefully. “He doing okay?”

Tim shook his head slowly. “All kinds of FUBAR. Shot up and blown up. Not taking to his prosthetics as well as he should. Not going to his appointments. Sleeping- when he does- with a loaded gun under his pillow. Fighting with his neighbors.” Another head shake.

Art clenched his hands tighter at the mention of prosthetics. It seemed so unreal that so many kids were dealing with shit like that every day. As screwed up as he knew Tim was, he was almost grateful he didn’t have to deal with that, missing limbs or whatever else, like some others did. 

Then again, noting the stiffness of Tim’s shoulders, the way his jaw clenched as he talked, it seemed he _was_ dealing with it, in a way. “You’re trying to help him out,” Art guessed.

A short, jerked nod. “Me and a couple other guys, we’re trying. He lives in Louisville right now. We just...” another shrug.

“You’re trying. Sometimes it’s all you can do,” Art said calmly, _not_ gently. Tim didn’t do ‘gentle’ too well. He tilted his head then. “Veterans Affairs. They can’t do anything?”

“Can’t and won’t,” Tim grunted, then amended. “Mostly can’t. Too many vets and too many problems. Not enough money, resources, not enough people to read through every file and claim.” He fiddled with a button on his shirt. “Not enough jobs for vets to get insurance. Not enough support for guys who need therapy. Too many vets not admitting they need the help. Too many guys still getting blown up and sent home with no-” he licked his lips, swallowed hard, “-no idea what to do after that last debrief.” He shifted in his seat, nervous, agitated. “Too much bullshit.”

Art very carefully kept his eyes on the house, kept every part of him still. He didn’t want any twitch or movement to be misinterpreted by Tim as some reaction to his words. He waited out the silence until it started to calm between them, until Tim’s hands stopped fidgeting. “How much of that bullshit do you have to deal with yourself?”

Tim shook his head. “Not nearly as much as most.”

_Not nearly the answer I was hoping for_ , Art pointed out silently. “You got a job, health insurance.” _Could still use therapy and help,_ he didn’t dare say out loud.

“Didn’t have to file any claims,” Tim agreed.

Damn, he really escaped a lot of that shit, didn’t he? “You didn’t file any claims for your injuries?”

“Wasn’t bad enough to need more treatment after my discharge and then I ended up at Glynco so it didn’t matter and how did you know I was...” Tim stopped, eyed him suspiciously. 

Art smiled, still not looking at him. “Son, I get every file, every form, every memo and paper the government has on a person when they get assigned to my office.” He waved a hand around, keeping it casual (he hoped). “So yes, I’ve seen a medical report from your first physical at Glynco.”

“Scars were still fresh then,” Tim murmured, maybe without realizing it.

_They’re still there, though,_ Art’s internal conversation continued. Tim rarely let others see them, but they were there. Even when he changed at the office, he managed to keep his chest turned towards his locker most times. His back only slightly scarred, nobody bothered wondering what the front looked like.

Art knew it looked worse.

“Something I’ve always wanted to know,” Art drawled then, bringing a smirk back to his face, setting Tim back at ease and back at grumpy. Good.

“No, I didn’t really get Winona Hawkins pregnant.”

“I don’t think she’s Hawkins anymore.”

“Why don’t you call Raylan right now and ask-”

“I’ve always wanted to know,” Art continued with a smile. “Why’d you join the Army to begin with?” Tim was compact and strong, sure, but had probably always been on the small side. And before the Army added all that muscle? Probably downright scrawny. Not the typical Army recruit.

Tim smiled darkly. “ _I got nowhere else to go,_ ” he quoted.

“Officer and a Gentleman,” Art caught the reference, and what it meant as an answer from Tim. “Never thought of you as Richard Gere, I have to admit. You the officer part or the-”

“No one’s ever mistook me for a gentleman,” Tim smirked now too.

Art laughed a little. “Any lady ever make you do the end of that movie? Do you still have your dress uniform or whatever it’s called?”

He watched with amusement as Tim clammed right up, shifting closer to the door and escape again. “Nope.”

“Aw, son, do we need to have a talk about your love life?” he asked happily. A new subject to torture Tim with, this was great.

“We really don’t,” he mumbled dryly. “Please.”

“That’s good, use your ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, women like it when you’re polite,” Art nodded sagely.

“You sure I can’t go for a walk?”

“Are you putting yourself out there enough, Tim?”

“Maybe get some coffee.”

“Women need to know you’re available, you know. They’re not psychic.”

“I could go use myself as bait, maybe. A bullet wound sounds really nice right now-”

“You’re getting to that age when you can think about settling down, it’s only natural to-”

“I changed my mind,” Tim dug his hands into his eyes, groaning. “Go to goddamn Florida and play mahjong. I hope you and Jack kill each other.”

Art laughed again, pleased. “Tim, I’ve been married for decades, you know you can come to me with any questions you might-”

Tim raised an eyebrow into that expression he usually reserved for Raylan. Uh-oh. “You had this talk with your daughters? Are they settling down now? Any men in their lives?”

“Shit,” Art deflated. “Touché.” His girls were older than Tim. Were they dating a lot of men? Putting themselves out there like he’d just told Tim to do? That was a sobering thought. “Shit.”

Tim nodded, satisfied again. And that’s when Art realized Tim had successfully diverted two personal questions away from himself. Out of respect for a job well done there, Art let them both go. Tim was getting really good at that deflection stuff.

“Slightly speak of,” he said instead. “Leslie wanted me to extend an invitation to you for dinner at our house on Sunday. I know better than to ever argue with her, do you?”

Tim pursed his lips, thinking it over. “I’m on call Sunday, but as long as nothing goes wrong,” he smirked at that possibility, “I guess I should show up for dinner.”

“Smart man,” Art nodded. See, he was learning. Tim would find an excuse to get out of it if the invite was coming from Art. But from Leslie? He didn’t stand a chance. The kid had no defense (or experience?) against motherly attention.

Tim half-chuckled. “Between your wife and Rachel’s ma, I’m gonna lose my girlish figure.”

Art snorted. “You could stand to gain a few pounds, Tiny Tim. Pretty sure Rachel’s the only one you outweigh in the office.”

Tim rolled his eyes, hopefully enough to miss the suddenly thoughtful look Art was sure was on his own face. He sincerely wondered if Leslie and Mrs. Brooks were the only ones who worried about Tim, about him eating properly, taking care of himself. 

Or, he corrected himself, the only ones who were able to do anything about it. Because he worried, Rachel worried, Raylan even worried in his own way. Some of the other deputies worried. Did Tim’s buddies worry? He wondered how Tim acted around them, what they saw.

“You know,” he glanced at Tim, who had gone back to watching the house. “I think you’re the deputy I know the least about outside the office.”

Tim looked confused. “You’ve seen my files,” he pointed out.

“I’ve seen everyone’s files, Tim. I still know more about their personal lives than I do yours. Some more than others-”

Tim snorted. “You want me to be more like Raylan?” he followed Art’s train of thought there.

“Shit, no,” Art shuddered at that thought. “Not when there’s still hope for you,” he used a line he’d said to Rachel a few times.

Tim looked skeptical, either for the ‘hope’ comment or the conversation altogether. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I know you the least outside the office, but you’re probably the deputy I know best while _in_ the office,” Art mused, not even sure himself where this was going. But it was true, in a marshal situation, he seemed to always know what Tim was doing and why. “It’s all very confusing for me.”

“I’m very sorry about that, Boss,” Tim apologized, perfectly deadpan.

“Why is that, do you suppose?” Art turned fully to Tim again. “Who are you, Tim, when you aren't being a marshal?” Was real Tim the Tim at the office? Or the one he is on his days (day, singular) off? The one who helped out injured, traumatized fellow vets?

Tim was silent. Still. Staring forward. Art started to regret his question- how much of a nerve had he just struck? How much of an effect would this-

Tim nodded out the windshield. “Target’s here, Boss.”

Art set aside his frustration to sigh about later. “Perp, Deputy.”

“Yeah, go to Florida and you can watch all the Starsky and Hutch you want,” Tim grumbled, checking his holster, opening the car door.

“I ain’t going to Florida, son,” he allowed a small sigh to escape as he got out of the car and followed his Deputy Deflection to the house. "I'd miss you too much."


	4. Ava, Nelson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim doesn't like sharing childhood stories. For some reason, he's nicer to the convicted murderer about that than Nelson.

**Ava**

 

Tim. Hated. Traffic.

He wasn’t totally sure of the real reasons behind what was an all-encompassing hate. Was it just that he liked sticking to a schedule? Was it some latent PTSD ‘too many things to keep an eye on’ thing? Some repressed childhood memory?

Or was it just that the asshole in front of him didn’t know how to use a goddamn turn signal?

He swallowed back a sigh, stretched his fingers to keep from tapping them against the steering wheel, kept his eyes forward. Perfectly calm.

“Maybe we should try this another day,” Ava had been quiet the whole drive until now.

He didn’t look back at her. “Justice system would kinda frown on that.”

“Is there a cutoff date for delivery, though? Like with restaurants? After 5pm, they won’t let me in?” her voice shook, betraying the bite in her tone.

He didn’t acknowledge her fear, giving her that much. But he didn’t reply either. He sent another text to Rachel instead, letting her know they’d be late. Art had decided transporting Ava Crowder to the women’s prison in Pewee Valley (and shit, didn’t the boss take way too much pleasure in pronouncing that over and over again) would require two deputies, neither of them Raylan Givens. 

Which meant Tim. He was beginning to feel like the poor man’s Raylan in the office, and that was unsettling. To say the least.

They were supposed to pick up Rachel along the way, but the traffic to 64 was backed up for what seemed like miles. 

Tim. Hated. Traffic.

“You allowed to text and drive at the same time?” Ava spoke up again as he put his phone down.

He quirked an eyebrow into the rearview mirror, knowing she could see it. “Easier ways for me to kill someone than nudging them with a car at less than two miles an hour.” 

She stared right back at him through the mirror, face unreadable. Well, not totally. He could still see the fear behind her eyes; it was something he’d seen in young eyes and green faces for years. Knowing you were about to go into The Shit but not knowing what it’d be like, there was no way around it, there was no way to guarantee you’d get out...

He surprised himself by breaking eye contact first, pretending to check his phone again. For no reason. Maybe Ava realized that, maybe not, but she stayed as quiet as he did, her eyes casting around the windows on both sides, her last look at wide open spaces and free... everything.

Did Tim sympathize? Maybe. Maybe a little. But most of his ability to do anything about sympathy had been beaten and drummed out of him years ago, so he kept silent. 

And so Ava broke the silence again. “You let your prisoners read in here?”

He glanced at her again, the confusion evident, so she nodded towards his passenger seat. She had scooted up as much as she could, able to see into the front. (He could’ve ordered her to sit back, but he didn’t.) And Tim almost- almost- frowned. He’d left his book on the seat. Stupid. He cleared his throat. “No.”

She looked at the book again, then back at him. Smiling a little, though it wasn’t necessarily mean. “Yours?” He didn’t react. She smiled again. “I think I read that book in high school. The girl disguises herself as a boy so she can become a knight, right?” Another non-reaction. “I liked that one.” More silence. Tim was good at filling silences with words, with looks, or with nothing at all. He chose the nothing route this time. “I won’t spoil it for you.”

“Thanks,” he drawled slowly, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

A beat of silence. “She has sex with the prince.”

“Thanks,” he drawled again, even drier than before. 

Ava almost smiled at that, probably would’ve, but then she seemed to remember her predicament, their entire situation, and the smile fell flat on her face. “I remember liking that character,” she said, quiet and drifting. “She didn’t like her situation. She couldn’t live that way, so she just went ahead and changed it. Did whatever she had to. She didn’t listen to anyone who told her she couldn’t.”

“Ms. Crowder,” Tim put as much ‘nothing’ into his tone as possible. “I’m not your therapist.”

She flinched. Glared a little. Sat back with a huff. And Tim felt a knot of tension in his neck- he hadn’t even realized it was there- smooth away when she put that little bit more space between them. “You think I’m a bad person, killing that man? He was a bad person. He beat his girls. He got two of them killed. At _least_ two of them, we don’t know if there were more. And he would’ve hurt Ellen May.”

Tim debated turning on the radio but decided that would be too petulant. He could point out that the very first time he’d met her, he was interviewing her about the shooting of her husband, so maybe... Instead, he tilted his head a bit to the side. “So killing someone’s okay if you think they’re a bad person?”

She huffed again, looking him square in the eye. “You tell me.” Pointed.

It would take a lot more than that to make Tim flinch. A lot more. Did she think this was the first time someone had tried to make him ashamed, accused him of being a killer or murderer? “They don’t pay me to think,” he replied instead.

“Boyd didn’t pay Colton Rhodes to think either,” she fired right back.

He almost laughed, but reacting in any way seemed like it’d take too much energy. “Did he pay him to kill Ellen May like her pimp would have? Was she that bad of a person?”

Ava did flinch. “It’s that easy for you to pass judgment?”

“You tell me.” Pointed.

“Hey,” she snapped. “I saw you, I was there. You didn’t shoot him as a marshal. You shot him for something personal.”

“You can tell the difference?” Sometime during Basic, Tim had learned that his particular drawl (or ‘accent,’ as all the Northern boys in his squad called it) was an effective weapon of its own, managing to keep him unruffled while ruffling whoever was in his way.

She snorted, surprising him. “Honey, I _was_ sleeping with Raylan Givens for awhile, remember? I know there’s a difference.” He smirked at that, he couldn’t help it. It was funny. She seemed a little proud of the reaction, sat forward a little then. “Who was Mark?”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel reflexively. If he snapped, if he shut down the conversation, she’d know she got to him. “Friend of mine Colt killed for no reason. No one paid him for that one.”

“But you paid him back,” she pointed out. “Eye for an eye-”

“Raised weapon for a raised weapon,” he corrected. “He drew on me.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one from Raylan too.”

“Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath, not really caring if she heard him. Poor man’s Raylan. Goddamn it.

“Colt seemed like he knew you,” Ava kept at it. “And you looked sad after you killed him.”

“Contrary to everyone’s belief, I don’t like killing people. I’m just good at it,” he argued, hating himself a little for arguing. Shit, though, wasn’t he allowed to not like that he had to keep shooting people?

She eyed him seriously for a moment. “Are you the marshal Boyd stopped from shooting Colt before? In the same tent?” He didn’t respond. “Same marshal who stopped Colt from killing Cassie St. Cyr?”

“Same marshal who almost got blown up a few days ago on the highway out of Harlan.”

Her eyes widened. “The decoy.”

He mock-saluted with two fingers. “All that doesn’t matter. When someone is pointing a gun, history don’t matter. Doesn’t matter that I know this guy killed my friend, tried to blow up me and my boss, that I saw him strung out at the VA and I felt _bad_ for him then. He had a gun and intent to kill. It’s my job to stop him.”

Ava opened and closed her mouth once, twice. “I didn’t want him to kill Ellen May,” she said quietly.

“Neither did I,” he shrugged, trying to get back into his drawl. He got his hopes up when the cars in front of him moved, but it was only a few feet. He was never getting out of here.

“So you’re a vet?” She asked after a bit more silence. He just nodded. “You don’t look like one.”

He smirked at that, but still said nothing. He didn’t look like much of anything to most people, and that’s how he liked it. He caught Ava glancing at his book again, back to him, and tamped down on feeling defensive. He knew his stupid books were a coping thing, he wasn’t an idiot.

_Guess it all evens out,_ he’d told Raylan. He could tell Raylan those kind of things- Raylan would either forget, not care, or not understand. Therefore, wouldn’t talk about it.

Unlike this woman. “You’re not from around here, are ya?” she smiled all sweetly at him, making him want to grit his teeth. “Not born in Kentucky, I mean. Texas maybe? Oklahoma?”

He raised one eyebrow at her through the rearview mirror.

Ava kept the smile. “We’re gonna be stuck here for awhile, honey. Just making conversation.”

And he blamed himself for that. She’d been too nervous and scared to talk before. And he’d felt sympathy, and look where that got him. She must’ve sensed it somehow. Women could do that, right? It was that weird ability, like being able to call anyone younger than them ‘honey.’ (Rachel’s ma did that too. Shit, Art’s wife had actually called him ‘sweetheart’ last week and _meant_ it. By the time he’d wrapped his brain around that, she’d somehow gotten him to agree to come to their Memorial Day cookout. A day he usually hated and avoided as much as possible. Diabolical.)

“I’m guessing somewhere around there,” Ava continued. “My mama had family in southern Oklahoma. You sound a little like them.”

He wondered if he should be offended. He supposed he could tell her about his own mama. That would probably shut her up, it’s what happened with the few people he did tell. “I ain’t from Oklahoma.”

She waited, as though he should be saying something more, but he focused on the road, creeping forward another meter or two. (Yard, he reminded himself. He had to stop thinking in metric units.) “Not Texas neither,” she decided. “You don’t have that Texas... aura.”

Thank God for that, he would’ve said if he wanted to be a part of this conversation. He sent another useless update to Rachel instead. Tim just _knew_ she was sitting at a Starbucks, laughing at him.

“You ever been to this prison?” she asked suddenly, voice shaking a little again. The distraction of needling him must’ve worn off.

“Yeah, for armed robbery of a Dairy Queen back in ’92.” He was relieved to get back to his rightful place- snarky asshole.

Ava glared, but gave a slightly hysterical laugh at the same time. “And they treated you all right?”

“I was a model prisoner,” he nodded. Then sighed because, well, shit. “It’s prison. It ain’t supposed to be fun. You’re not supposed to feel safe and warm. You’re a number on a file now.”

“...Okay,” was all she said.

_Shut up, Gutterson, do not engage._ And yet, “But the warden’s decent. Don’t know about the other prisoners, but the warden runs an honest ship. Likes to see people come out right in the end. You can’t say that about most places. And I wouldn’t be surprised if your boyfriend already paid off half the population to keep you safe.”

“Fiancé,” she corrected.

“Congratulations, Ms. Crowder,” he fired back. “You gonna keep your last name or take his?”

And just like that, just as she starting laughing genuine and light, there was a break in the traffic, an exit opening up. Tim scanned the area just in case Boyd Crowder _had_ decided to set up an ambush, but it was clear. He pulled into it, sent another text.

“Passing judgment again, Deputy?” she asked, less bite to it this time.

“You wanna know what I think? Going from Raylan to Boyd was a lateral move.”

She blinked, then smiled. “Is that a judgment on me or on them?”

He turned onto 64, finally, breathing easier at the open highway, the car picking up speed. They were five minutes from Rachel, two hours from the women’s prison. Four hours from him getting a drink. “You tell me.”

 

**Nelson**

 

“Okay, thanks,” Nelson hung up the tiny emergency phone, looked across the elevator to Tim. “Maintenance says it shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes or so before they get us moving.”

Tim just nodded, leaning back against the far corner with his arms crossed, taking his time with a blink, eyes closed for a few seconds, opening slowly.

Nelson fidgeted, checked his cell phone, fidgeted again, then clapped his hands together. “So, where’d you grow up?”

***

Art was there waiting when the elevator doors were finally pried open. And barely managed to get out of the way before Dunlop came barreling out, heading straight for the locker room, pale as a ghost. Shaking like one of those ugly little dogs from the Taco Bell commercials. Art stared after him for a moment, then turned back to the elevator.

Tim was making his way out at a slower gait, all relaxed and unconcerned in that way that Art had learned to be suspicious of. “What did you do to Nelson?”

Tim just combined a shrug and a smile, taking a few steps around Art towards his desk. “He wanted to swap stories.”

Nobody ever found out what they talked about, but Dunlop avoided Tim for three whole weeks.


	5. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim learns that being trapped by himself doesn't mean he's alone...

It wasn’t the first time Tim had woken up bleeding and tied to a chair. Sure, this was the first time it was happening on this continent, but it wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar feeling.

_There was heat, sharp and biting, there was screaming, the smell of blood in the air, the taste of blood in his mouth-_

Tim jerked upright in the chair. No. No. He didn’t have to think about that. He’d been fine, Special Ops bursting in after a few hours. He’d been fine then, he’d be fine now.

Someone jabbed the side of his head, testing, hard enough to aggravate the sharp crick in his neck (which told him his head must’ve been down- and he unconscious- for a few hours). “Looks like he’s awake.”

_Looks like?_ he wanted to question their observational skills. But he kept quiet, no reason to do, well, anything until he had all his bearings. He licked his lips slowly, feeling them cracked and bruised, maybe split on one side, and lifted his eyes a bit at a time.

Ignoring the men around him for the time being, Tim studied his prison. ( _Not a prison this time, Gutterson, focus. It’s just a cabin. It’s not a prison._ ) He took in the number of windows, doors, possible exits. Closest possible objects he could use as a weapon. The strengths and weaknesses of the men crowded around. Four of them. Where they were standing. How they were standing. Where the other soldiers in his unit could be, if they were even-

No, that wasn’t right. He blinked, tried to shake his head subtly and clear his thoughts. This wasn’t Sangin. Kentucky. It was Kentucky. He’d been outside Art’s house. Got jumped, dragged into a van. Stupid. He’d been angry and distracted. Why angry? Tim frowned, trying to remember. He and Art had been arguing. Art told him to go home, slammed the front door...

The voices of the men around him broke through his haze. He eyed the closest one lazily. The one he recognized as Gerald Henson, the former (and disgraced) U.S. Marshal. The reason he and Art had argued. Employing his best ‘annoy the shit out of Raylan’ expression, Tim sighed. “If I told you _I_ was Carl Joyner, would you believe me?”

The fist striking across his eye was enough of an answer there. These were the same assholes who had followed their latest WITSEC assignment across four states, leaving two marshals and two civilians dead along the way. That they knew of.

Which, okay. Didn’t exactly bode well for Tim, probably.

“Am I the source of information or the ransom?” he tried again. He could work with either, but the former meant more a chance of questioning and ruining his pretty face. The latter was just... silly. He wondered idly if they’d cut letters out of magazines for a note. People still did that, right?

Another hit, this time to the gut. Not a fist, either. That felt like a club or a bat. He thought briefly of ninjas- or maybe it was samurais?- who’d beat each other with bamboo canes to prove how tough they were.

Tim was tough. This was nothing. He’d had worse.

_He could hear screaming again, just through the wall next to him. He couldn’t tell who it was, Dex, Mark, Charlie, who knows. Not like it mattered. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even scream back. His throat was too dry, his tongue feeling like it took up his entire mouth. Suffocating. He couldn’t swallow._

_Someone grabbed his leg, held it to a certain angle, the bottom of his foot bared again. The heat-_

He shook again. Glared at these guys some more, waiting. There was always something to wait for. The big guy in front of him, the one who so astutely figured out he was awake, leaned in close. He smelled horrible. Tim could feel his stomach roll, realized it was empty, and tried to calculate how long he’d been here.

Unfortunately, even thinking words like ‘calculate’ was enough to get his head pounding incessantly. Hello, concussion. He closed his eyes to get some equilibrium back, tried to swallow-

_He couldn’t swallow-_

Shit. No. He wasn’t there. Tim tried to keep his mind in the present. Focused. He shakily raised an eyebrow at Big Guy One.

Who eyed him so dispassionately. So very unimpressed. Most people looked at him like that, which was fine with him. Unimpressed meant underestimating; he liked that. “Where are you keeping Joyner?”

“At a safehouse,” he answered truthfully, because he could. His voice was even, almost bored. He wasn’t very impressed either. Of course, the concussion could have something to do with that. “But taking all this into account, we could eliminate the ‘safe’ part, I guess.”

Another hit, his stomach again. He wondered if he should yell, pretend like this was scaring him. “Where’s the safehouse?”

He shook his head, held back a sigh and held eye contact. Actual ‘eye’, since one was already swelling up and blurry.

_They blindfolded Tim and the other three right away, voices sharp and coming from every direction, confusing him. He could tell by their inflections that they were asking questions, but while he knew more Pashto than most in his unit, it was going too fast for him to figure out what the fuck they were asking. They searched his pockets-_

A hand patted down the pockets of his shirt, as though maybe he’d conveniently left the address on a folded piece of paper there. Tim shook his head again, half to try clearing it, half in exasperation with these guys. 

At least that told him he hadn’t been held here too long, not if they hadn’t thought to do this before now.

They hit him again a few more times, doing that thing bad guys did when they wanted to establish that they had power. Thinking they were scaring him. He almost felt bad for them, they hadn’t even brought out blowtorches yet, why should he be scared?

_He tensed up, started to get scared, when they said a word he definitely did recognize. Aghzay. Al Aghzay. Shit. He wasn’t even surprised when he was separated from the rest of the guys. They knew who he was._

“Come on, we know who you are, Deputy Gutterson. We know it’s your job to drive Carl to the courthouse. We can make this a little easier for you if you help us out,” Big Guy One was doing all the talking, even though Tim knew that Eyebrow Scar Guy behind him- Gerald- was the one in charge. Big Guy One was head muscle. And really into his job, apparently. Tim could already feel a hitch in his breath- hello, cracked rib.

He spit out the blood in his mouth and smiled some, wondering if (hoping?) there was blood on his teeth. “Little easier compared to what?”

_It was his second tour as a sniper. He’d built himself a bit of a reputation. Insurgents started using the nickname Al Aghzay for him after his confirmed kills hit double digits. There was a price on his head now, just like there was for any sniper in the OEF. Wanted, dead or alive._

_Tim had to admit, he liked it better when he was overlooked._

_They tied him to a chair, beat him, burned the bottoms of his feet, broke two of his fingers, forced him to listen as his buddies went through the same in the next room. Charlie seemed to be getting the worst of it; or at least he was screaming the loudest. Charlie, who was on his first tour. Charlie, who’d just turned nineteen and couldn’t wait to marry his girl when he got home-_

“...move him?”

Tim blinked, or tried to. They’d hit him again when he’d checked out, caught up in memories. (Not flashbacks, he didn’t have flashbacks, he wasn’t like that.) His head felt a few pounds heavier, dragging down towards his chest. There was blood in his eye. The blurry shapes in front of him were talking.

“-back room for now... call Mullen for...”

The voices were muddled, underwater. Tim couldn’t make out what they were saying, couldn’t even really tell what language it was anymore.

You get hit enough times, it all starts to sound the same anyway.

_He was disoriented, coughing up... maybe sand, maybe blood. Charlie had been cut off mid-scream a minute ago, and now everything was quiet. He couldn’t hear Mark or Dex either. And that made Tim panic. Just a little at first, but the need to move, to fight, to do something, was starting to overwhelm._

_He didn’t know where anyone was, he couldn’t see the men around him-_

His right eye was completely swollen shut. It was night time, or nearly, and the lack of sunlight left everything in the room all shadowed and dark. Tim couldn’t see. He needed to move, to fight, to do something.

_Charlie had been carrying his mother’s wedding ring around in his pocket for good luck, and now he wasn’t screaming. Tim tried to catch his breath, to come up with a plan. A way to get Charlie and the others out. If he could just get his hands free-_

“He ain’t going anywhere by himself. Back room-”

Tim closed his eyes, let his head drop down to his chest. The picture of defeated. If they untied him to move him, he could work with that. Fight his way out. Find the rest of his unit. There were three guards around him, he just needed to get a gun from one of them.

_They untied his hands._

Tim exploded off of the chair, pushing away as much pain and weakness in his limbs as he could. He twisted around and under the arm of the nearest guard, kicking at the back of one leg and striking his gut with an elbow, knocking the guy to his knees. There was a gun sticking out the back of his shirt.

Too much blood in his eyes- and blurriness- for a clean shot, but Tim took it anyway. The shouting around him and the echo of the gunfire was louder than he thought it would be, the recoil stronger. His vision whited out or a second, but he knew he’d hit his mark. One down.

Unfortunately, so was Tim. His legs buckled under him and he sank to the floor, just managing to keep his grip in the gun. Charlie, he had to find him and the others. There were still... two? three? guards between him and the door.

But he must have miscounted- a hand shot out from behind him, grabbed his wrist and twisted harshly, forcing the gun out of his hand. Tim tried to keep fighting, but another hit to his stomach leveled him, sent him sprawling onto his back.

“Motherfucker,” someone cursed. “Frank’s dead.”

Tim blinked, frowned, tried to understand. Who the hell was Frank? How did these guys know English all of a sudden?

And just like that, his head cleared. Tim couldn’t stop the sharp inhale of air, even as it pulled at his ribs. He was in Kentucky. The Joyner case. The cabin.

A dead man was on the floor next to him, half of his face missing.

_I shot him?_ was the last full thought Tim had before the boot came at his head, finally knocking him out.

***

Art readjusted his shoulder holster again, wishing he could just pull his gun out now, have the weight of it in his hand. It’d be the one reassuring thing in this whole goddamn mess.

But he kept his gun where it was. He took a deep breath instead, unclenched his fists, and knocked on the door of the cabin.

Gerald wasn’t the one who answered, and Art didn’t bother greeting the lackey who did. He looked past him into the cabin, taking in the... the everything. There was a body on the floor covered by a blanket. For one horrible, shitty moment Art thought it was Tim. But the boots weren’t military-issue, the legs were too long. Art closed his eyes for a second, let that sink in, and pushed past the lackey. “Gerry.”

Gerald was there, leaning against the doorframe of the only other room in the cabin, blocking Art’s view into it. _Shit._ “Chief.”

Art clenched his jaw, reigning in his temper. “Where is he?”

Gerry didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t even play the game so many assholes in situations like this played. No feigned innocence, no smartass remarks. “You have the address to the safehouse?”

He glared at his former deputy. He should feel sad about things coming to this, but he wasn’t. Just pissed. “It stays in my pocket until Tim is safe.”

Gerry just nodded, unsurprised. He rubbed at his jaw, his face, the scar across his eyebrow. “And you came here alone?”

Art nodded slowly, calmly. “That was the deal. You know it, I know it. Where’s my marshal, Gerald?”

He still wasn’t smirking or toying with him. Gerry simply stepped out of the doorway, into the back room, giving Art a full look inside. Finally giving him a full look at...

“Son of a _bitch,_ ” Art spat the words out, reaching for his gun instinctively. “Son of a-”

“Don’t, Art,” Gerry warned, he and his two lackeys drawing their own guns faster than him.

Art slowed his movements, kept his hands out and empty. But his eyes stayed on Tim, his feet taking him a few steps closer. Tim was tied to a chair, beat to all hell. His face was swollen and bloody, one eye blackened and bruised completely shut. His chest stuttered and heaved with each breath, his head barely raised at the noise around him, and Art honestly couldn’t tell if he was awake or not. “Tim?”

No response. Art forced his eyes and focus back on Gerry. Who shrugged, so unrepentant. “He killed Frank.”

Shit, the body in the main room. “I don’t know Frank. I don’t give a shit about Frank. Frank probably deserved it.” Gerry laughed, way too at ease with all of this. Art worked to stay calm, took a step closer. “Let me get him out of here.”

“Excuse me?”

Another small step closer. “That’s the deal. Let me get him out of here. You think I care about Joyner more than Tim? You know I don’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be here at all. I’ll give you what you want, just let me get him somewhere... safe.” Tim’s head bobbed, raising a little, maybe recognizing Art’s voice. 

Gerry noticed the movement too. “Scrappy kid, isn’t he?” He walked further in, Art daring to come closer too. Almost in the doorway. “I don’t even think he was all there in the head when he shot Frank, but he fought good. Like a pit bull. Not like they taught us- like _you_ taught us- at Glynco.”

“Gerald. Let him go,” Art said again, somewhere between asking and demanding. Warning.

Gerry shook his head, jabbed the barrel of his gun against the side of Tim’s face. Tim made a soft noise- a grunt of pain- but that was it. “You know, I’m not even sure why we need him anymore.”

Art may have been older, but he still had a few quick draws left in him. His gun was out and up, his aim confident, steady. “Don’t.”

Now, Gerry smiled. Now, the lackeys were interested, tense, guns pointed at Art. “Not a good idea, Chief.”

“Whole lot of bad ideas going on right now,” he snapped. “I can always add one more. You touch him again, I will forfeit your life. That actually sounds like a damn good idea, doesn’t it?”

Gerry kept on smiling.

***

“Shit shit shit,” Raylan inched closer through the brush. From where they were hiding out, he and Rachel couldn’t get a clear look at Tim, but they had seen Art’s reaction. It didn’t seem good.

And now Art had his gun out, he and the three armed men in the room in some sort of standoff. With arguably the best shooter among them unconscious in the middle.

“Shit,” Rachel agreed next to him. “How much closer do you need to be to get a good shot off?”

“Fifteen feet closer and about ten years younger,” he grumbled back.

“So I have a chance, then,” she seemed to say it without even realizing. But then again, wasn’t everyone in the office in the habit of shit-talking without realizing? “Tim’s not moving.”

She seemed to say that without realizing too, much quieter. Raylan had no response, no comfort. No words except, “I know.”

They both stayed quiet then, working their way closer. The window they were spying through didn’t provide a lot of room to work with, and Raylan worried about how they’d cover both Art and Tim if they needed to. Though to be fair, Art looked pissed off enough to take them all out. And maybe half the county along with.

“Whose good luck should we bank on today?” he asked, not even sure if Rachel, God, or anyone else could hear him.

***

Art kept both eyes on Gerry, but half his focus on Tim. Not moving, not fighting, nothing. “It doesn’t have to go this way, Gerry. There’s still time to-”

“Oh, I’m Gerry again?” the man nodded approvingly. “That’s good, Chief. Remind me of our history, our bond. Maybe there’s still a chance of convincing me to turn myself in.”

Art didn’t snap, didn’t even shake his head. “I’m more figuring out the chances of me killing all three of you and getting all the paperwork done before suppertime. My wife’s making pulled pork tonight.”

“C’n I come? Haven’t eaten... all day,” Tim’s words were low, slurred, but definitely aware, surprising everyone in the room. Gerry turned to him instinctively, gun swinging around in his direction yet again, and that must have been the signal someone was waiting for.

The window behind them smashed inward, and Gerry was knocked off his feet, chest suddenly a bloody, open mess. Art took out the lackey closest to Tim, turning to get the other, relived to see him already down to his knees and still falling.

There were instincts telling him to get Tim free right the hell now and instincts telling him to be a marshal, and he had to force himself to listen to the latter. He cleared each man’s weapon, checked to make sure each threat was neutralized. Gerry was dead, and Art spared himself the guilt and regret to drink through later. Trusting that Rachel would call it in, he went to Tim. Finally.

He was still slumped over in the goddamn chair. “Hey, you with me, kid?” Art kept his voice low and calm but authoritative, unsure if Tim knew exactly where (or when) he was.

“Yessir,” another slurred response, and it did nothing to assuage that particular worry.

“I’m going to untie your hands now. Don’t move too much or you’ll hurt your ribs further, understand?”

Tim gave what Art guessed was a nod, so he crouched down behind the chair, using his pocketknife to undo the cords around his wrists. “’M sorry,” he heard the mumble.

Art paused for a second, then eased Tim’s arms back around in front of him, grimacing at all the blood. “For what?”

Tim looked like he tried to stay still, but being tied to the chair was the only thing keeping him upright. He collapsed forward and would’ve fallen clean off if Art hadn’t caught him in time.

“Shit, Tim, hang on, let’s-” another pair of hands was suddenly there- and then another cradling Tim’s head carefully- and Art and Raylan lowered Tim as easy as they could to the floor.

Rachel balled up her jacket to put under his head, kneeling next to him, taking the briefest of moments- brief enough that nobody commented on it- to smooth Tim’s hair back from his face. “You’re a mess, Gutterson,” she grumbled, making it as annoyed as possible.

Tim blinked his one good eye, taking a second to recognize her. “Your... your mom’s a mess.”

She glared. “Oh good. So the kidnapping and beating did nothing to affect your maturity level.” She took Raylan’s jacket from his outstretched hand, laying it over Tim. Looking over at Art, “Locals and EMS will be here in five.” 

Art just nodded, watching Tim slowly track the hand to the rest of Raylan and process him next. “Through th’window?” he mumble-asked. “Nice... shot.”

Raylan settled down to sit next to them, shrugging so nonchalantly. “I have my moments. Besides, I think I’ve owed you a couple.”

Tim nodded, though none of them were entirely sure he understood any of the words. “He dead?”

Raylan barely glanced over to check. “Yeah.”

Tim shifted like he was trying to sit up, and three sets of hands pushed him back down. “No way,” Rachel warned. “Stay still.”

“Charlie okay?” Tim looked up at her, needing an answer.

“Char-” she stopped, eyes widening a little, looking over to Raylan and Art for help. Raylan shrugged, confused, but Art just shook his head. ‘Not all there in the head,’ Gerry had said. So this is what he’d meant. “Charlie’s fine,” Rachel tried, almost reassuring, almost confident. “Don’t worry. Just, just lie still, okay?”

Tim blinked that one eye again, and they could all see the moment Tim came back to the present. His face seemed to darken, embarrassed. “Shit. S-sorry.”

Rachel dared to touch his hair again, pretending to brush it back so she could look at a cut on his temple. Art had to admire how good she was at sneaking in that affection. “It’s okay. Just try not to move too much right now.”

They could hear sirens approaching, a little ways off but still almost louder than Tim’s attempt at a laugh. “Been doin’ that... all day.”

“Tim,” Raylan was better than any of them at showing exasperation above any other feelings. “Shut up. It’s over. Pass out now. And shut up.”

“’Kay.” Tim was better than any of them at sneaking in the last word. He proved that now by going limp and unconscious just after getting the word out.

And Art? Art was better than any of them at feeling completely responsible for the whole damn thing.

***

It was a small flicker of movement at first, his fingers twitching. Art leaned forward a bit, watched Tim wince in his sleep as he shifted around a little. “Tim,” he said quietly. His eyes fluttered open, shut, open again. Art watched his eyes fly around wildly for a moment, taking everything in, barely focusing. “You’re at Lexington Memorial, everyone’s okay,” he kept his tone calm, slow.

Tim closed his eyes enough to gather himself, licked his lips, looked around again. “Rach’l ‘n Ra-”

“Everyone’s okay,” he repeated. “Not even a scratch on them.” He sat back with an almost-smile as Tim fumbled around for the bedside remote, tilting the bed up some. Though, he realized, not as far as he thought Tim would raise it. The ribs really were hurting him. 

He offered a cup of water, the cup that always seemed to be in every hospital room ever in history. Art had been in too many of these rooms over the years. He shrugged that thought off, keeping his eyes away from the slight shake of Tim’s hands as he took the cup. It could always be worse. “Thanks,” he heard Tim mutter, unsure if the tone was from drugs, from pain, or from attitude.

“You’ll have to stay overnight,” he kept up his exposition, letting that go. “Couple broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, a concussion, stitches here and there,” he settled back in his chair, crossing his arms as though he was more annoyed with the list of injuries than concerned.

Tim grimaced. “Overnight?” Like that was the problem in all this, like he hadn’t heard the list.

Art let himself glare, pretending there was nothing else between them right now. “Listen to me son, if you leave this hospital before you’re rightfully discharged, I’ll sic Leslie on you. Trust me, that’s a level of trouble you don’t want.” Tim still looked skeptical, so Art hooked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the door. “And Rachel’s in the hall. You think you can get past her?”

Tim frowned, focusing on that last bit. “Why’s she out there?”

At first Art thought it was Tim’s self-worth issues coming out- why was anyone waiting for him?- but then, no, he figured out that particular tone. Tim was confused on why Rachel wasn’t in the room with them. He pushed back the little bit annoyance. “Because you and I need to talk first.”

He watched with something bordering on fond frustration as Tim tried to curl away from him a bit, put some more distance between them. Which, of course, meant scooting maybe an inch farther away on the hospital bed. “Talk about what?”

He laughed a little, hoping there was some humor in it. “So many things, kid.” Off of Tim’s slightly indignant glare, Art leaned forward, hands folding themselves in his lap. “Back in the cabin. Did you kill that man knowingly? Or during a- a flashback.”

Tim actually flinched, and Art was pretty sure he’d never seen Tim flinch before. Not even during the argument they’d had the other night before Tim was attacked, and all the shitty things they’d said to each other... Tim fidgeted a little too, pulling at the end of the blanket over him, moving it around for no reason. “Which is worse?” He sounded scared of the answer.

“There isn’t a worst,” Art reassured. “I just need to know.” Tim hesitated again, so Art tried to lean forward even more. “I promise, Tim. It doesn’t matter. I’ll make sure you get cleared regardless.”

Tim just nodded back, ticking his jaw left and right while he mulled things over. “I thought I was somewhere else,” he finally said, tossing the words out haltingly, trying to get rid of them. 

He’d been prepared for that, kept his face neutral. He didn't ask about who Charlie was, what had happened to him. Now wasn't the time (there may never be enough time for something like that). “You’d had the shit beat out of you. Concussion, head trauma, all that. And, well,” he rubbed a hand over his jaw, knowing how much Tim was hating this, “You’ve got memories of... of-”

“Getting the shit beat out of me?” Tim supplied, mumbling still, arching one eyebrow. “Yeah.”

They regarded each other silently for a bit. Well, Art regarded. Tim just kinda sank back into his pillow, looking at some point over Art’s shoulder. He sighed. “All my years as a marshal, I’ve never been more at a loss than I’ve been since you and Raylan showed up.”

The joke seemed to fall even flatter than Art expected. Tim’s eyes flashed angrily, just for a second, then looked even farther away, towards the door. “I’m glad things were so much easier when Gerald Henson was your marshal.”

Art tampered down on the angry retort he wanted to use for that. He couldn’t; he deserved it. Tim was right to throw that in his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Tim grunted a reply. A slight tilt of his head, the _me too_ implied a little. Maybe. “‘S not your fault I got jumped.”

“Heh,” Art sat back again, so tired. “It kinda is, but that’s not what I’m sorry about.” Tim raised an eyebrow, waiting for Art to continue. “I should’ve trusted your judgment. You’ve earned at least that much from me, Tim.”

“Chief-”

“At least that much. You figured out that it was Gerry, and you came to me because you trusted me to do my job. And I didn’t.” Another shake of his head. “I said some shitty, shitty things that night. I’m not proud of it.”

Tim shrugged one shoulder. “I was drunk by that point. Probably don’t remember half of what you said.”

“Really?” Art eyed him skeptically.

Tim looked down at his hands, flat on the blanket. “No.”

Art bit back a sigh, thanking the Lord he’d never had to raise sons. Raylan and Tim were work enough. (And then he remembered the type of men Raylan’s and Tim’s fathers were, and could’ve kicked himself.) “And so, I’m sorry.”

Tim glanced over at him, one quick flick of his eyes, then away again. “I shouldn’t have... I said shit too.”

“Yeah, well,” Art made himself smirk. “You’ve always been such a wordy drunk.”

The joke worked this time, Tim smirking a little too, relaxing a fraction of an inch. “I’m- I’m glad you didn’t have to be the one to kill him.” It sounded like it was a little easier for Tim to confess now.

“I wanted to be,” Art confessed right back. “He would’ve killed you. Did it all to get to me. That’s not someone I want to remember as one of ‘my’ marshals.”

It wasn’t really how he wanted to say... what he wanted to say, but Tim seemed to get it. He smirked again. “Shit, Boss, if you’re saying you prefer me and Raylan, _Nelson_ , over him, your history’s looking a little-”

“Heavy hangs the head, etc etc,” Art cut in with a good-natured glare. “At least there’s still hope for Rachel.”

“That’s right,” she said from the door, startling them both. “Remember that, Timmy. I’m gonna be your boss one day.”

“Aren’t you already?” he half-whined, lifting a hand to half-heartedly beckon her and Raylan into the room.

She smiled, pretending it was for his words and not for him being awake and okay. She took the seat across from Art, on the other side of the bed. “You’re lucky, you know. If I really was your boss, I’d be lecturing you all night on how stupid you must be to get attacked and subdued by only three armed men,” she shook her head, mock-disappointed.

“I was drunk,” he argued before he could stop himself.

Art sat back even more, content and amused when Rachel raised one eyebrow at that. “So you’d like the ‘you drink too much’ lecture instead?”

“I-” Tim looked helplessly at Raylan and Art, both of whom just smirked and held up their hands defensively. “This is really not fair,” he pointed out. The drugs going through him made his voice lighter, more plaintive. _Younger_ , Art couldn’t help but think. “Doing this now. When I can’t leave.” He looked at Rachel, eyes abandoned-puppy-sad. “I’m stuck here overnight, you know that?”

“I did know that,” she made a show of getting comfortable in her chair, gesturing for Raylan to bring his own closer. “And you know what that means, right?”

Raylan produced a deck of cards, bringing Tim’s bedside tray over between the four of them. “Yep,” he answered for Tim.

Who glared at Raylan, either for answering for him or for going along with it to begin with. “I-”

“It means,” Rachel smiled in that sweet way of hers that wasn’t sweet, but also kinda was. “You’re stuck with us too. Got it?”

“Five card draw, aces high, one-eyed jacks wild,” Art declared, taking the deck out of Raylan’s hand with that ‘I’m the boss’ look. He shuffled a few times, then paused to look at Tim. Waiting.

Tim kept up his glare as best he could, but sighed, tapping the tray with a hand that was barely shaking now. “Deal me in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big huge giant (3 words that mean the same thing, thanks Sam Seaborn) thanks to everyone for reading this all the way through despite my spotty updating schedule. I owe you! Next story, way better. I promise. I think.


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